


Split Needles

by murderousfiligree



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, M/M, Quarantine, Shapeshifting, hook suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderousfiligree/pseuds/murderousfiligree
Summary: A collection of vignettes focusing on Hisoka and Illumi's relationship. Most will be canon compliant, some will be AU. Tags will be updated as new content is added.
Relationships: Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck
Comments: 27
Kudos: 304





	1. Hooks

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing vignettes, and I love hisoillu, so it seemed sensible to open myself up to prompts. Trying to keep these to 500 words or less, though some may go over. 
> 
> If you have a prompt for me, feel free to comment here, or message me on [ tumblr](https://thranduilsbitchboy.tumblr.com) or [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/hisokasbitchboy). I can't make any promises, but so long as it's doable in 500 words (and it doesn't squick me out) I will probably fill it.

The hooks aren’t so different from the needles, at first. 

He counts each one, inhaling as it dips beneath the skin, exhaling as it surfaces; the thickness feels the same, but they don’t go nearly so deep as he’s used to. The urge to draw upon his _Nen_ , to mold himself into a new shape around the metal, is nearly irresistible. A full decade has passed since he pierced himself for a purpose other than sustaining a new shape, and even then he only did it to build a tolerance to the pain. 

“How does that feel?” asks Hisoka, pulling a hook through the flesh of his back. 

“Fine,” answers Illumi. He keeps himself perfectly still on the bed, the side of his face pressed against the damask comforter. Another hook bites into his thigh. “Are you almost finished?” 

“Almost.” Deft fingers trace the path of the hooks, tapping the dull end of each one; he feels the magician’s aura attaching itself there, a series of gentle tugs towards the ceiling. “There. Can you stand?” 

Illumi pushes himself up onto his knees, shuffling backwards off the bed. He sinks into the plush carpet, standing firmly on the ground.

“Good.” A hand traces the line of Illumi's jaw. “Then up you go.” 

No sooner are the words spoken than Illumi finds himself parallel to the floor; he hangs two meters high, at eye level with Hisoka, who is still idly stroking his face. 

“How is it?” 

Illumi closes his eyes, pondering the peculiar sense of weightlessness. A cold draft assails his naked body, and he imagines gliding far above the world, where the air is frigid and thin. “It’s nice,” he says.

One of Hisoka’s hands slides upwards, fingers threading his hair. Illumi’s body is sinking, slowly but surely; when he is about a meter from the floor, a force coaxes his legs apart, drawn by the hooks. 

“You’re my little puppet,” purrs the magician, brushing a thumb over his lower lip. Illumi’s mouth opens at the touch, a gesture that has become so automatic it is almost a reflex, and the digit slides against his tongue. “Good boy.” 

The Yorknew skyline sways before him, rising and falling to the rhythm of Hisoka’s thrusts. Rather than pull against the hooks (as his instincts command him), Illumi wills himself to remain limp, so the bliss courses through him unimpeded. It fills him to his toes and fingertips, straining beneath the confines of his skin—too big a feeling for his body, more potent than any pain.


	2. Quarantine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @peanut_gallery_ghostwriter for the prompt!

Illumi aligns the fabric beneath the needle, half a centimeter from its edge. The machine clatters as he pushes it through, punching a red seam into black cotton; he holds it up for inspection, squinting, pinching the corner between two fingers. Satisfied, he adds it to the pile.

“Still making masks?” Hisoka’s head appears from behind the door, shortly followed by his arm, along which several plastic bags are strung precariously. Fending off the cat with a push from his boot, he slips inside and shuts the door with his hip. 

“Yes,” says Illumi. “Did you find everything?” 

Hisoka ambles over to the kitchen, huffing as he sets his burden on the counter. He peels off his own mask then, careful to touch only the straps, and tosses it into the sink. “Well, they were out of rice.” 

“ _Out_ of rice?” 

“And pasta.” 

Illumi frowns, joining him beside the counter. He begins picking through the groceries, the crease in his brow deepening; there are two packages of chicken breasts, but he does not see any vegetables or fruit. “Didn’t you buy anything green?” 

“Let me see.” Hisoka rummages in one of the bags, producing a bright red box with a toucan on the front. “This has every color in it,” he quips. 

Illumi closes his eyes and inhales. 

“Wait,” says Hisoka, before he can respond. “I _did_ get a fruit.” 

The man places something in his hand, and Illumi opens his eyes again. 

“I know you wanted avocado water, whatever that is,” continues Hisoka, “but I couldn’t find any. So I figured if I got an avocado we could just make our own.” 

Illumi stares at the object in his hand for a long moment, struggling for words. “This is a mango, Hisoka,” he says at last. 

“Oh.” The man scratches the back of his head. “Oops.”

“It’s fine,” sighs Illumi, placing the mango in his otherwise empty fruit bowl. “I will just go back tomorrow.” 

As they unpack the rest of the groceries, Illumi wonders for the umpteenth time if quarantining with his boyfriend had been a good idea. They’ve only been dating for two months, after all, and aside from a mutual appreciation for rough sex, they have very little in common. Most evenings they spend so long squabbling over what to watch that they just wind up flipping on the Food Network for noise and sucking each other off. 

“Hey,” says Hisoka, sliding his arms around Illumi’s waist. “Why don’t we order takeout and watch something, hmm?” 

“If you suggest _Killer Klowns from Outer Space_ again you are sleeping on the couch.” 

Hisoka laughs, his chest rumbling against Illumi’s back. “How about you pick the movie and I pick the food?”

Illumi tilts his head back, considering the offer. “Fine,” he says. “Just let me feed the cat first.” 

Two hours later, with grease-stained bags on the coffee table and the _Eraserhead_ credits rolling on screen, Illumi nestles into the crook of his boyfriend’s shoulder and is grateful for compromises. 


	3. Identical

“You cannot be serious.” 

Hisoka slips his fingers beneath the rim of Illumi’s underwear. “What?” he asks. “I just want to see if you’ve got the details right.” 

Illumi scowls, and it is both wonderful and bizarre to see the expression on his own face—the thin red eyebrows furrowed, the full lips flat and stern. A pair of gold-headed pins protrude from either side of the white neck, the only difference between them from the collar up. “I do not usually bother to replicate the genitals of the person I am imitating.” 

“Oh?” Tugging down, he exposes the assassin’s groin and thighs. The legs are thicker than usual, more muscular, though not quite his own; the cock is unmistakably Illumi’s, limp and unaltered. “Why not?”

“Because my assignments do not typically require me to get undressed.” Illumi lifts a leg as Hisoka pulls the garment over his foot, leaning back against the wall of the suite. “And they certainly never require that I sleep with anyone.” 

“Ah.” His hand slides between Illumi’s thighs, caressing his perineum. “But you could do it?” 

“Do what?” 

“Make yourself look like me.” He licks his lips. “ _Exactly_ like me.” 

Without warning, the body before him begins to shift—it grows hot at first, almost too hot to touch, then seems to swell and solidify. Illumi casts off his pale green undershirt, the last of his clothes, and folds his arms across his chest. “Of course I can,” he says, and _god_ , even the voice is perfect. “Who do you think I am?” 

Hisoka groans, eyeing his own naked form with open hunger. Excluding Illumi’s pins and his own loose cotton pants, he might as well be looking in a mirror. “Fuck, Illu.” He leans in close, bracing his forearm on the wall. “You even _smell_ like me.” 

Illumi’s hands, usually cold to the touch, have gained both size and warmth; one of them finds his erection, and he grinds into it eagerly. 

“You want to fuck me like this,” Illumi observes. 

“Yes.” Hisoka’s tongue traces the pin in his neck, then slides north towards his ear. “Desperately.” 

“Why?” 

Hooking an arm beneath Illumi’s thigh, Hisoka pulls their lower bodies flush. Despite his show of scowling, the assassin is already growing hard against him. “You’ve really never wanted to fuck your doppelgänger?” he asks, rolling his hips. “It’s always been a fantasy of mine.” 

“Somehow I am not surprised.” Illumi throws his arms around Hisoka’s neck. “And no, I never have. I prefer a certain amount of—” His breath hitches as Hisoka grabs his ass. “— _contrast_ between myself and my sexual partners.”

The magician laughs. “Do you think I’m vain?” 

“I know it.” They are both fully hard now, identical erections separated by thin white fabric. “Now where do you want me?” 

Hisoka glances back at the four-poster bed with its heap of silk pillows, partly veiled by the translucent canopy; then he looks ahead, over Illumi’s shoulder, to the baroque bathroom with its massive tub; finally, his gaze returns to the man in front of him, whose yellow eyes are wide and expectant, and he is seized by an irresistible impulse. 

“I want you right here,” he says, and drops to his knees. 


	4. Afterlife

It takes a lot to get Illumi drunk. 

Whiskey is just diluted poison, after all, and his upbringing ensured his immunity to poisons, alcohol included. Still, he’s had two full bottles over the course of the hour, and he is finally starting to feel an effect. Not a strong one—he’s never been properly buzzed on anything weaker than 180 proof—but he at least feels relaxed, which is always a challenge in Hisoka's company. 

“Do you give up yet?” asks Illumi. 

“No.” Hisoka stares mournfully into his own empty bottle. “But we’re gonna run out at this rate.” 

“I told you we would need more.” 

“I _know_.” He draws out the last syllable, his voice low and languid, and tosses the bottle off the bed. It lands with a _thunk_ on the hotel floor. “Eight bottles was just...just...” He gestures vaguely with both hands. “Y’know, not _heavy_ but…” 

“Cumbersome?” 

“Cumbersome!” he exclaims, hooking an arm around Illumi’s shoulders. “And I don’t even _like_ whiskey.” 

“This was your idea.” Illumi extracts a fresh pair of bottles from the paper bag in the middle of the bed. Hisoka takes one without protest. 

“I know,” he says again. “I just think you’d be such a _cute_ drunk, Illu.” 

Taking a long swig of whiskey, Illumi rolls away from the window, where Yorknew glitters in the gathering dark. His standing agreement with Hisoka is to meet whenever they happen to be in the same city, but the frequency of these meetings over the past year has led him to believe the magician is following him. If the sex weren’t so good he might be inclined to do something about it; for now, he is content to continue their near-monthly trysts.

Hisoka’s face is flushed in the lamplight. A quarter of his bottle is already gone, and he holds it loosely against his chest. “Illu,” he murmurs, tucking a lock of hair behind the assassin’s ear. “What do you think happens when you die?” 

Illumi snorts; he hadn’t expected that. “I don’t think anything will happen when I die.” 

“How dull,” sighs Hisoka, sipping at his whiskey. His ankle has weaseled its way between Illumi’s calves, and if experience is anything to go by, the rest of him will soon follow—the magician’s knee will slide between his thighs, the arms will gird his waist, and the tongue will find his jaw, his ear, his neck... “I prefer to think there’s an afterlife.” 

“You do?” 

“Mm-hm.” Hisoka shifts towards him, slow and deliberate. “I’d like to fight a god. Or _the_ god, if there’s just one.”

“No sensible god would allow you into heaven.” 

The magician laughs, breath hot on Illumi’s neck. “No sensible god would have created this world,” he points out. “I’d like to fight the devil, too, anyway.” 

The image of Hisoka grappling some great horned creature, hellfire licking at his black stilettos, is a strangely apt one. Illumi takes a pull of whiskey. “The devil won’t stand a chance,” he says. 

Hisoka laughs again, setting his half-empty bottle on the nightstand. “You know, if I drink any more I won’t be able to fuck you.” 

Illumi arches an eyebrow. Now sprawled halfway on top of him, Hisoka’s bulk is a pleasant weight against his own. “You are giving up, then?” 

“Now, I wouldn’t say _that_.” A hand ghosts over his groin. “Call it a temporary truce. For our mutual benefit.” 

Illumi does not deign to argue. 


	5. Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to use the prompt "hair," but couldn't decide whether to write about Hisoka's hair or Illumi's hair. So I did both! These next two I'm posting as a set.
> 
> It might be a little while before I post another vignette, as I want to focus on my longer project for the next few weeks. But I have two more prompts in my queue, so I will be coming back to this at some point.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Illumi’s hair is soft between his fingers. 

That such long, thick tresses could be free of tangles is a marvel in itself. Hisoka has tried growing his own hair long, but he always loses patience at shoulder-length; his hair has a coarse texture, with a natural wave, and is consequently a massive pain to brush out. Not that he minds pain—he’s fond of the sensation, generally speaking—but thirty minutes of wrestling with a comb every morning is not his idea of time well spent. 

Illumi shifts in his sleep. Noise is drifting in from the street: a babble of foreign voices, a braying animal, the bright trill of a bicycle bell. They left the balcony door ajar last night to let in some much needed fresh air; in typical Kakin fashion, incense was burning when they arrived at the hotel, and the scent was not to his or Illumi’s liking. Now, as the morning sun filters through diaphanous gold curtains, the only smell Hisoka can discern is that of Illumi’s shampoo—vanilla and lavender—a scent he has grown to associate so strongly with sex that as he brings the lock of hair beneath his nose, inhaling deeply, he immediately begins to grow hard. 

One of Illumi’s eyes pops open. “Are you  _ sniffing _ me?” 

“Yes,” says Hisoka, letting the hair fall from his grasp. “Were you pretending to be asleep?” 

“No.” Turning onto his side, Illumi props himself up on one arm. “Why were you sniffing me?” 

“Because you smell nice.” Absently, he slips his fingers back into Illumi’s hair, letting his nails slide along the assassin’s scalp. “When did you decide to grow out your hair, Illu?” 

“Decide?” 

“Yes. Or did your father forbid you from cutting it short?” 

Illumi’s brow furrows. “Why would he do that?” 

“I was being sarcastic, dear.” 

“Oh.” Illumi pauses for a beat; he looks up at the gilded ceiling, seeming to think. “There was never a moment when I decided. Following my eighteenth birthday, my mother ceased reminding me to cut my hair. For the first year or so, I simply forgot.” 

Hisoka’s mouth quirks. “You started growing it out on accident?”

“Yes. After a while I started trimming it, but I never cut it short again. I suppose I was curious to see how long it would get.” 

“I see.” The assassin’s hair does seem a little longer than last time—it falls to his mid-back now, nearly a foot further than when they first met. Perhaps it will keep growing and growing, till it drags behind him like a black bridal train. 

“It’s getting late.” Illumi throws back the sheets and is out of bed before Hisoka can thwart him. “Will you call a cab while I shower?”

Hisoka glances mournfully at his erection, then back at Illumi. “You’re really going to leave me like this?”

“Yes. My flight home departs in two hours, and our spending the night together does not necessitate morning sex.” Bending down, Illumi plucks a bottle of conditioner from his suitcase. He peers over his shoulder as he straightens, matching Hisoka’s leer with a sharp look. “You never did tell me what you were doing in the Kakin empire.” 

“Oh, you know.” Openly ogling Illumi’s bare ass, Hisoka begins to stroke himself. “Sightseeing.” 

“Somehow I doubt that,” he replies. “Now are you going to call the cab or do I need to do it myself?” 

Hisoka spreads his legs and withdraws his hand, making a show of licking the pre-come from his fingers. “Suck me off before you go and I’ll call anyone you like, baby.”

Scowling, Illumi snatches his phone from the bedside table; a beat later, the washroom door slams shut. 

Hisoka sighs. It was worth a shot, anyway. 


	6. & Blue

“You changed your hair,” Illumi observes.

Hisoka smiles, kicking off his shoes; the black heels clatter onto the yellow laminate floor. “I change it often,” he says. “I’d get bored otherwise.” 

Using _En_ , Illumi has been monitoring the magician’s approach since his ship docked in Dolle Harbour. This time, Hisoka provided two days’ notice of his arrival, so his presence in Zaban City is not unexpected. Their last encounter, in the Ochima capital, was purportedly spontaneous—Hisoka “just happened to be in the neighborhood” when he stopped at the bar where Illumi was staking out a victim. The assassin not-so-subtly implied that if he appeared unannounced again their sexual relationship would come to an abrupt end; twenty minutes later he was pinned against a bar bathroom wall, moaning pitifully while his incorrigible tease of a partner gave him the world’s slowest handjob. Nevertheless, the warning seems to have stuck. 

“You don’t like it?” asks Hisoka, peeling off his shirt. He tosses the white garment next to his shoes. “I can change it back.” 

Illumi watches the man disrobe with mild interest. Aside from the hair—now vibrant sky blue, a jarring shift from his prior magenta—he looks much the same: lean and muscular, pale as a sheet despite the summer sun. 

“It makes no difference to me,” he says. “It’s your hair.” 

Stripped bare, Hisoka starts toward the bed; Illumi moves to accommodate him, shifting on the tropical-print comforter (he is already nude in anticipation of the evening’s activities). Red light bleeds through the open balcony, imbuing the room with a pinkish hue, and the sound of waves crashing into the quay is carried in on the salt air. A question occurs to Illumi.

“What is your natural hair color?” 

The bedsprings squeal as Hisoka climbs in beside him. He flashes a grin. “Why don’t you try to guess?”  
  
Illumi’s eyes flick from Hisoka’s blue head to his naked body. No use there. The man either waxes weekly or his body hair has been permanently removed. Come to think of it, he cannot recall seeing roots, either—since dark hair shows more readily, he hazards a guess: “Are you blond?” 

A hand roams over Illumi’s chest, palming his pectorals, then turns south towards his groin. “Why blond?” 

“If your hair were dark, the roots would be visible after a couple of weeks,” he explains. “You would also need to bleach them before dyeing, which, if done biweekly, would quickly damage your hair.” 

Hisoka chuckles. “Always logical, Illu. There’s just one problem with your theory.” The hand which is not devoted to the task of fondling Illumi passes through his own hair, and at the touch it seems to change. What once was blue becomes pale, golden red, evocative of sand at sunset. “I don’t use dye.” 

“Oh.” Illumi knows the magician’s primary _Hatsu_ (anyone who spends more than five minutes with him will walk away with a working knowledge of _Bungee Gum_ ), but this is the first he’s seen of this particular ability. “What do you call that?” 

“My auntie called it strawberry blond, and she was quite fond of it.” The hand glides through his hair again, restoring the color to its former state. “But I prefer it blue.” 

“I meant your _Nen_ ability.” 

“Ah.” Pressing a palm into the small of Illumi’s back, Hisoka coaxes him onto his stomach; the assassin keeps his head turned sideways, not breaking eye contact. “I call it _Texture Surprise_.” 

“I see.” Illumi pushes his knees forward, elevating his ass while Hisoka fetches lubricant from the nightstand. The magician’s ministrations have brought him halfway to hardness, and the oiled finger slipping inside him finishes the job. “Do you have any other abilities?” 

Hisoka adds a second finger, pressing sharply down, and Illumi tenses at the jolt of pleasure. “Probing for weaknesses, Illu?” 

“Yes.” 

Hisoka’s fingers move in slow circles, gently massaging his prostate; Illumi’s eyes are half-lidded, and the throb between his legs is rapidly becoming an ache. 

“You won’t find any,” he says. “Not without a proper fight.” 

By proper Hisoka means to the death, of course. Their usual fights were no mere sparring sessions—fractured bones are not uncommon—but Illumi barely notices the pain and injury only seems to augment Hisoka’s pleasure. It’s nothing less than foreplay: blood soaking the bed, hands grasping at throats, the victor fucking the loser senseless. Everybody wins (except the hotel custodian, but they always leave enough to cover the damages). 

Illumi has previously demurred the magician’s request for a death match, however, and he demurs again now. His mother taught him to defer confrontation until he is reasonably certain of victory; at five months, his partnership with Hisoka is still young, and he is in no rush to see its end. 

After an interminable interval the magician withdraws his fingers. The feel of Hisoka’s cock has begun to invade his dreams (damp underwear is now a regular part of his morning, more than it ever was in his adolescence) but dreams cannot compare to the real thing, and as the man sheaths himself he cannot suppress a moan. 

“That’s right,” purrs Hisoka. “Take it all.” 

For the nonce, Illumi decides to drop the subject of weakness. 


	7. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to go ahead and mark this collection as complete, since I'm not sure if I'll do more of these and each chapter is its own story, anyway. Thanks to @Sondgo for the beta and for the prompt!

Three in each shoulder. Four in each knee. One in each palm and the top of each foot, strange stigmata—the wounds deep but bloodless, obscured by glints of gold—the body motionless save the rise and fall of the bare chest. Hisoka’s breath looks steadier than his own, which seems to claw at his throat like a wild thing.  
  
“Are you finished?” The voice is light and lilting. Illumi feels a fresh surge of anger at the sound, and he allows himself the luxury of another strike—his fist collides with a face already swollen and bruised beyond recognition. Something cracks; either Hisoka’s cheekbone or his own hand. A dull throb soon confirms the latter. 

“Again,” groans Hisoka. 

“Shut up.” 

The magician smiles; a red tongue darts out to lick the blood from his split lip. “Why don’t you give my mouth something better to do, hmm?” 

“I am not going to kiss you.” 

“I wasn’t talking about kissing.” 

Illumi shoves a pin through the nook just above the forearm, watching the tip emerge beside the elbow. “Doesn’t anything upset you?” 

“Mmm.” Hisoka closes his eyes. “I hate to lose.” 

“You don’t consider this losing?” 

“No.” 

Illumi frowns. Is he being genuine, or taunting him with a lie? With twenty pins driven through him, Hisoka has no control of his body from the neck down; he couldn’t possibly escape. Could he?

“You mean to suggest you can break free.” 

“I never said that.” Hisoka rolls his head to the side, hair a tangle of red on the carpet. “The way I see it, I’ve already won.” 

“Is that so?” A flick of Illumi’s hand and Hisoka rises. The movement is stilted, mechanical, so unlike the magician’s usual grace. He stands before Illumi, backlit by the hotel window, an obvious erection in his thin white pants—the one part of Hisoka he could never hope to control. 

Illumi cocks his head. “Was your goal not to force me into submission?”

“Oh no, I’m afraid my desires are a mite more complicated.”

“Explain.” 

“Mmm. Let me answer your question with a question: since you discovered I was in Padokia, have I left your mind, even for a moment?” 

Hisoka’s gaze is steady, unyielding; Illumi has the ridiculous notion that he is the magician's puppet, not the other way around. “You’ve crossed continents for the express purpose of seeing me, and you’re implying _I’m_ obsessed?” 

“That’s not an answer.” Hisoka smiles. “Poor Illu. You know, it makes no difference to me who’s on top—I love being hurt like this. But nothing gets you harder than being treated like a toy. Oh, don’t give me that look. You may play the part of the sore loser, but what you really want is to be overpowered, for me to force you to feel the pleasure you’re too ashamed to demand. Why else do you moan like a whore when I fuck you, but don’t make a peep when you’re fucking me?” His fingers twitch, straining against Illumi’s _Nen_. “How about you take these pins out and let me give you what you want? If you’re a good boy, I’ll even let you—Ah!”

Illumi shoves Hisoka’s swollen face into the bed, bends him at the waist like a doll. The damask comforter muffles the magician’s moans; Illumi fucks him hard and fast, savoring none of it, and when he finally comes he comes in silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> illumi: i have bested you in combat and will now pound you mercilessly  
> hisoka: ok hole


End file.
